nothing says amerika like a camo kilt

it's karaoke at the corner bar, friday nite.
i've twisted and turned you far
enough that you lost you your sense
of direction down by the river so yeah
let's sing.  you disappear after buying
a pepsi. the mic is manned by captain
and tenille (no relation) and a pool
game's going between the kilted man
with a red stripe on his head and a   burnt
out x addict in the add
on lean to . marge at the bar  serves
beer and wine and a glass of ice for my soda.
there's a hall to the men's room
you say
that's about 6 foot high, i had
to bend down i'm six three and
when you go down it you see this strange
metal texas chain saw
massacre wall in front of you and you
don't see the other door
till you're right up on it when i did
i said i hope this one's
the men's room , cuz i'm not goin
in there. it is  and the dooronly opens about yay wide
just  enough for a urinal .
you  look
around, take in the blinking disco lights
the flaking black tile ceiling, red brick wall
three thick girls in flashy club gear
one with a tiara on her head  say
i dunno how long this place
has been here but they built it
around whatever that thing is
a pool table
and her.
you nod toward the barkeep, i would
love to sit down and interview her
ask her what's the most interesting story
you can tell me about this place
then let her go -ten minutes later
you'd have a book.